


Silver Glass

by Eledhwen



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who and Lord of the Rings crossover, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Drama, Gen, sand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-02
Updated: 2011-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-23 08:55:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eledhwen/pseuds/Eledhwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to "Through the rain curtain". The Tenth Doctor returns to Gondor, shortly after "Planet of the Dead" and about 60 Middle-earth years since his last visit. He finds sickness, sand and a game of chess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **_Disclaimer:_** They belong to the BBC and the Tolkien Estate. I'm just playing in the sandpit for a while.

There was green grass outside the TARDIS door, a scent of flowers, and – as the Doctor stepped out, the clear clarion call of a trumpet from somewhere close. Automatically he glanced up; one sun, and to his right, a tall white tower with a black banner blowing out in the wind.

He smiled. He had not set coordinates this time, had let his ship take him where she would. It was, perhaps, not surprising she had chosen this place, given his state of mind. There had been a kind of healing here, once before, or at least the beginning of healing.

Closing the door behind him, he crossed the lawn he had landed on and passed through an arch of greenery into a new garden. Flowers grew abundantly in the beds, and trailed up the walls. Under a tree dripping with golden blooms, three women sat surrounded by sewing, one of them singing in a clear voice. The Doctor paused to listen.

One of the women turned her head, saw him, and let out an exclamation which broke the spell. The song stopped, and the woman pulled a dagger from underneath the sewing and stood up.

"Halt there, stranger," she called across the grass. "Who are you and how did you come into the Queen's private gardens?"

"Are they private?" said the Doctor. "Terribly sorry. Wrong turning, I expect. I'll go."

"I think not." The woman advanced, dagger at the ready. "Do not think you will escape so easily. Name yourself."

"I'm the Doctor," he introduced himself. "Lovely to meet you. I'm unarmed, always unarmed, so d'you mind putting that dagger away?"

She lowered it, but the grip did not waver. The singer had risen too now, and came to join her companion a few paces away from the Doctor. "Did you say you were the Doctor, sir?"

"That's me."

"Then I believe you are welcome here. I am Arwen, queen to Elessar of Gondor, and I think you have the freedom of our realm."

The Doctor nodded. "I have that honour, yes."

The queen laid a hand on the other's shoulder. "Éowyn, I think this man means us no harm, if he is who he says he is. Doctor, the Lady Éowyn. Wed to Prince Faramir. And my daughter, Idril."

"Charmed," said the Doctor, as Éowyn slipped her dagger into its sheath and made a courtesy. Arwen held out her hand.

"Come, Doctor. Though I trust you, I would take you to my husband myself so he can judge."

She turned and led him through the garden, into a courtyard the Doctor recognised, and up a short flight of stone stairs. Guards at either side of the door snapped to attention as they passed, and they were admitted into a passageway. Another door at the end stood open, and Arwen walked briskly up the corridor and into the great hall beyond. The Doctor noted that the place was busy, with servants, guards and civilians hurrying from one place to another – quite the opposite from the air of tension that had pervaded the city when he had visited before. But that was another time and he had been another man back then; it seemed that the promise of peace and prosperity had, in Gondor, come to fruition.

The various people passing by all paused to acknowledge the queen as she passed. She and the Doctor swept up the hall to the far end, where a man in elaborate red and gold garb was speaking quickly and gesturing widely before a tall black throne at the top of a dais. As they approached, the man seated on the throne looked up, smiled at Arwen, and looked down again.

"I will consider the request, your Grace," he said, in a tone brooking no argument. "I cannot promise more at this stage." The man in red and gold spread his hands in an expression of disappointment, bowed deeply, and withdrew with a sideways glance at the queen. With a sigh, the man on the throne turned his attention to Arwen. "My love, I am glad to see you."

"Harad?" she asked, ascending the steps and bending to kiss him.

"Harad. We'll talk of it later. But you bring a guest, Arwen?"

"He appeared in the garden," said the queen, taking a seat on the smaller, silvery throne by the king's side.

"Just ... appeared?" asked her husband.

"You make it sound like I came out of thin air," the Doctor interjected. "Just came through from the next garden along, that's all."

"And may I be permitted to know who is wandering through my gardens?" said the king, with a raised eyebrow.

Arwen turned to him. "But don't you know, Estel?"

"I have never met him before in my life," the king returned.

The Doctor pulled at an earlobe. "Actually, that's not true, y'r Majesty. Last time I dropped by you gave me the freedom of your realm and said I was welcome any time."

The king rose, and came down the dais steps. "Did I? When was this?"

"Just after the War," said the Doctor, remembering. Wars for both of them, and happy endings for only one. "I was ... a little different, back then."

"He told me he was the Doctor," Arwen cut in.

"I _am_ the Doctor," said the Doctor. "Last time, I came when your friend Frodo was here with his companions, and the rest of your Fellowship. Sauron had been defeated and you were building a brand new kingdom. I brought a friend, chap by the name of Tolkien."

The king nodded. "All true. But you could have gained that information through many means, foul and fair."

The Doctor, wishing – not for the first time – that he had some sort of passport to carry around with pictures of all his regenerations, sighed. "You gave me some athelas for my garden. Hands of a healer. We're both reluctant soldiers, you and I, Aragorn."

"But how, then, do you appear so different?" asked the king, before holding up a hand. "No, but wait; when Mithrandir fell in Moria he was sent back, anew. Is this a similar trick?"

"Similar," the Doctor agreed. "A way of cheating death. It's been a while, for me, since that last visit."

Aragorn relaxed, and laughed. "Aye, and a while for me as well." He took the Doctor's hand. "You are welcome once again, Doctor. You seem to have met my Undómiel."

The Doctor gave Arwen a bow. "Indeed I did. And Faramir's rather angry lady. Does she often threaten visitors with a dagger?"

The king glanced at his queen, who nodded.

"Éowyn did not trust someone just appearing in the garden," she said.

"The lady Éowyn is more than a match for any stranger in our gardens, or anywhere in our realm," said Aragorn. "As long as she merely threatened."

"She merely threatened," agreed the Doctor. "Although, as threats go, it was a good threat. I've got experience."

Aragorn grimaced. "Aye, and so have I. But what brings you here again, Doctor? Not that I am not happy to see you, whatever your looks. Do you bring us another visitor from a distant world?"

"Just me, this time," the Doctor said. "My ship made the choice. She thinks I need some peace and quiet."

"Your vessel _thinks_?" exclaimed Aragorn. The Doctor nodded. "Well, at some point I must look inside your little blue box. But not now. I fear there is less peace and quiet here than you would wish."

The Doctor stuck his hands in his pockets. "The Harad thing?" he asked. "Couldn't help noticing. Desert country to the south, right?"

Leading the Doctor to a table set aside, Aragorn sat down and gestured for his guest to take a seat also. "A large and powerful nation, but one that's oft been at war with Gondor." He explained that Harad had been beset with a plague, one that was killing large numbers of the population and which the country's healers had been unable to deal with. "They know that we have different skills in medicine – they want our aid. But I have never heard of the sickness and I do not know if I can spare the men and the supplies they are asking for. And I wonder, when should a conquering nation step back and allow the conquered to manage for themselves?"

"What are the symptoms?" the Doctor queried.

Aragorn spread his hands. "A fever, vomiting, constant thirst; the ambassador said some are showing a rash also. I've no idea what it is."

"Sounds fairly straightforward," said the Doctor, "though I couldn't give a name to it either. When did it begin?"

"Three weeks ago," Aragorn said. "After a sandstorm, strangely enough. They discovered the first symptoms in the capital city, and it has spread across the land."

Arwen came to join them at the table. "I wish I could ask my father," she said, and Aragorn took her hand.

"I know, my love. But we cannot. This is something Harad, I think, must deal with."

The Doctor was considering the problem, possible diagnoses running through his head, possible causes. The sandstorm seemed important somehow. Perhaps sandstorms were this year's theme. The idea came without warning and popped out of his mouth as soon as it had emerged into his head.

"I could go and have a look," he said.

"A look? At what?" asked Aragorn.

"The illness," the Doctor elaborated. "Come too, if you want. We'll nip down to Harad, find out what's wrong, and then you'll know if you can afford to help them."

The king drew a map towards him. "Harad's a journey of at least a sennight, Doctor, including the sea passage."

"Harad's a journey of a few moments if you happen to have a TARDIS handy," said the Doctor. "Which I do. In your garden, remember. My ship."

Arwen and Aragorn exchanged glances.

"I remember," the king said, "seeing your ... ship, before. It disappeared."

"The technical term is dematerialise," the Doctor explained. "She travels in space and time, Aragorn; I could have you in Harad before you left Gondor, if I wanted. Though actually I'd aim to arrive sometime today, and get back here about the same time." He grinned at the king, putting persuasion into his voice. "C'mon, don't you want to come? I can see you do. You're a traveller, Aragorn, and you haven't travelled until you've journeyed in my TARDIS."

Aragorn stood up, his hand fiddling with the hilt of a knife at his side. Eventually he turned back to the Doctor. "But why? Why would you do this?"

Sighing, the Doctor leaned back in his chair. "It's what I do, really. I travel, but somehow I always seem to find things that need doing. Planets to save. Rifts to close. Sometimes it's sicknesses to heal."

"Planets to save?" Arwen's tone was that of astonishment mingled with disbelief.

"It's surprising how often a planet's in danger of destruction," the Doctor said. "Not all of them have hobbits around to help out, you know. Anyway, how about it?"

"I shouldn't really just leave," said Aragorn, doubtfully, but with the edge in his voice that told the Doctor he was on the verge of agreeing.

"Time travel," the Doctor said, going in for the kill. "Nobody need even know you're gone. Seems to me you have a perfectly good person to leave as regent, in any case." He bowed to Arwen. "It's the perfect solution, Aragorn. The only solution, really. I can go alone, but it's much more fun with two."

The king sighed, and nodded. "I cannot imagine it being a joyous journey, but you have persuaded me, Doctor. I will go, as long as you can promise me to return me here no more than a few hours after we have left." A strange expression crossed his face. "What a strange thing to request!"

"It's a deal." The Doctor held out his hand, and Aragorn shook it briefly.

"I had better go and change into some more suitable clothes," he said. "If we are to do this, I wish to do it without it being known that Elessar of Gondor is wandering Harad without an invitation. They are people with strict notions of ceremony." He strode off towards a side door, leaving the Doctor with Arwen.

He stood up and began to examine the statues around the hall, aware of the queen's gaze on his back as he did so.

"You are quite as extraordinary as Estel told me," she said, breaking the silence.

The Doctor, absorbed in contemplation of the statue of a former king, said, "one of a kind, that's me."

"And you will bring him back safely?" Arwen asked, coming up to him with a rustle of silken skirt. Turning, the Doctor found himself meeting a pair of keen grey eyes that held wisdom and humour and concern.

"Yes," he said, "I will. Though frankly it's not a question I'm used to people asking when I'm taking someone like your husband with me. I think he can handle himself."

Arwen laughed. "He is one of the greatest warriors and swordsmen Arda has seen, but I am his wife. I worry when he is abroad in battle. I always have, and I always will. That is my job, Doctor." She held his gaze. "Who worries about you?"

He broke the moment by going back to the statue. "Who's this one, then?"

"Doctor." Arwen's voice was soft, but firm. "Who worries about you?"

"Nobody," he said, noting the precise carving of the statue's robes. "Nobody. It's better that way."

"Is it? Really?"

"It's easier," he admitted.

"Easier is not always best," Arwen said, gently. "I think there are people who worry about you, who love you, though you push them away."

The Doctor thought of Sarah Jane, and her gentle admonition in that anonymous London park. "It's ... it's just easier," he repeated. "Now, tell me about this king."

With an exasperated sigh, she did so, and the history of Gondor kept both of them occupied until Aragorn returned. He had exchanged his rich clothes of silk and velvet for some old, scruffy garments in faded leather and wool. By his side a battered scabbard just failed to hide the richness of the sword it contained, and there was a pack on his back.

He drew Arwen aside and they exchanged murmured words and a kiss while the Doctor examined the mural etched into the window.

"Let's go and see your ship," Aragorn said, linking arms with his queen.

Together they made their way back to the garden. Servants and guards alike bowed as the royal couple passed, and did not seem to take any particular notice of the king's garb.

In the garden the TARDIS seemed undisturbed, sitting incongruously amid the rose bushes.

"A present from Sam Gamgee," said Aragorn, brushing his fingers over a yellow flower in bloom. "His wife is Rosie. I have seldom met a more blessed couple. Six children so far, and they don't seem to be stopping." He looked away from the roses. "And here is your blue box, Doctor. Tell me, what is a police call box?"

The Doctor busied himself with finding his key. "It's not important. A disguise." He unlocked the door. "It's what's inside that really matters."

He stood back to let Aragorn past, wondering what the king's reaction would be. There had been so many reactions over the years – bewilderment, astonishment, fear, horror, delight, often disbelief, to the TARDIS. They had come to appreciate all of them, he and the time-ship.

The king embraced Arwen, and taking a deep breath stepped inside the door.


	2. Chapter 2

For a moment he stood just inside the entrance, gazing upwards and around, one hand resting easily on the hilt of his sword. The Doctor nodded at Arwen, followed Aragorn in, and closed the door, waiting.

“I thought,” said Aragorn after a short while, “that little would astonish me any more. I have seen wizards and Ents and Elves; hobbits defeating the greatest evil and the Dead walking. This, Doctor, is as incredible as all of that. That such a space exists inside four small walls ...”

The Doctor threw off his coat and moved past to the console. “Like I said last time, it's just technology you don't have.” He began to input the coordinates, unable to keep back the grin. “What am I saying? Yeah, she's brilliant. Now, hang on to something.” The TARDIS shuddered into motion. “Just a short hop!” he said, “nice and simple.”

They came to a halt. Aragorn let go of the strut he had been holding and adjusted his sword-belt. “Where are we?” he asked.

Pulling the console screen towards him, the Doctor double-checked. A perfect landing.

“Side-street in the capital,” he said. “Right then.”

“Do you have a plan?” asked Aragorn, as the Doctor put on his coat.

“Have a wander around. If there's something odd going on, it'll probably make itself known.”

Aragorn looked sceptical, but said nothing, and followed the Doctor out of the TARDIS door.

They were indeed parked in a side-street. It was hot, an oven-like dry heat that parched the throat; and instantly dusty. The Doctor sniffed the air, and found it odd.

“D'you know your way around?” he asked Aragorn.

“It has been some time since I was here and able to move where I would,” Aragorn said. “Last time I came I was given all the courtesy in the world, but shepherded around and hustled from one meeting to the next. But I shall do my best. We should aim for the market; it is where everyone will be.”

“Market it is, then,” the Doctor said.

He let Aragorn take the lead through the streets, which were busy but not overcrowded. The buildings were made of some form of stone, windows shuttered against the sun, and the people wore loose clothing akin to cotton. It could have been any of a hundred similar desert worlds, but there was something in the air that made the hairs on the back of the Doctor's neck bristle. Whatever the illness was, it had the Haradrim on edge.

His sense of wrongness merely increased when they reached the market. Quite apart from the number of people with scarves wrapped over their faces, the atmosphere was thick with tension. He glanced sideways at Aragorn. “Feel it?”

“I feel _something_ ,” the king said.

“This isn't a normal illness,” the Doctor said. “It's so far from normal ...”

They wove their way through the crowds. The Doctor noticed that despite the fact Aragorn was dressed differently from the locals, he managed to blend in in a way he almost envied.

“So,” he said in a low voice, as they waited for a cart loaded with bundles of wood to go past, “when were you here before?”

Aragorn shrugged. “Must be eighty years. More, maybe. I was travelling the South, for a while. I served Thengel in Rohan for a few years, and then came to Gondor. After some time Ecthelion, the Steward, began to suspect who I was, I think; I left his service and continued south. I felt it was important to learn about other lands. To travel. It taught me much about myself also.” The cart gone, they continued through the streets. “I left the North as a boy, but I returned as a man.”

“Travel will do that to you,” agreed the Doctor.

Turning into a new street, one full of stalls selling earthenware, they became aware of a commotion ahead of them. There was wailing and a crowd had gathered around a fallen figure on the ground; someone was crying for a healer.

The Doctor and Aragorn exchanged looks, and together hurried forward, only to find their way barred by an old man in long maroon robes.

“We need no white men here,” he said. “Go back to the North.”

“We might be able to help,” the Doctor returned. “My friend and I know something of medicine. What's wrong?”

“It's the sickness,” cut in a different voice. “It is taking all of us, one by one.”

The old man stood back, and as if this was a signal the crowd parted. The figure on the ground was that of a young woman; her skin covered in a deep rash and her brow beaded with sweat. Aragorn was instantly on his knees by her side, feeling her skin and frowning.

“She needs to be inside, somewhere cool,” he said.

There was no rush to help, so the Doctor picked up the girl's feet and Aragorn took her shoulders, and they carried her into a nearby shop that appeared to belong to the second speaker. A space was cleared on a couch and they laid the girl down. She was muttering to herself, her voice almost inaudible.

“I need some warm water and cloths,” said Aragorn, rolling his sleeves up.

“But what can a Northerner do?” asked the shop owner. “I beg your pardon, sir, but all our healers have failed to cure this sickness. Many have died. I fear she will be just another.”

“I know some things your healers perhaps do not,” said Aragorn gently. “Let me try. If she is to die anyway, then my efforts cannot hurt, surely?” He rose, putting his hands together. “I am Halboron, from the far North.”

“Sajid,” said the shopowner, bowing in a similar fashion. “This is Mina. We ...”

“Fetch the water,” Aragorn said.

Sajid disappeared, leaving them alone with Mina.

The Doctor fished out his sonic screwdriver from his coat pocket and turned it on. “Good. Now the formalities are over, we can see what's really wrong with her.”

“The formalities are necessary,” said Aragorn. “They are a proud race; protocol matters.”

“Which is why I brought you, to deal with the protocol,” the Doctor said, scanning. “Never been much of a diplomat, myself. Oh, now that's interesting.” He examined the readings. “She's not alone in there.” He bent down close to Mina's face and listened. “And that's not Haradric she's speaking.”

Aragorn bent to listen. “She's speaking Westron. In fact ...”

“Remember Ronald and his languages thing?” the Doctor said. “I'm afraid the TARDIS is translating for you. We're speaking your Westron. They're speaking Haradric, and we're speaking Haradric to them. She's not speaking either of them, nor is she speaking any other tongue from Arda. This is something else.”

“How can you tell?” asked Aragorn, doubtfully.

The Doctor winked. “I speak everything.”

“Then what is she saying?”

“Strings of words, that's all,” said the Doctor. “No especial pattern, and the language is common to a hundred species across a spread of time and space. The point is, she _is_ infected, but not by a virus. She's infected by something sentient, something conscious. Possessed, I suppose you'd say.”

“Then we ... can you drive it out?” Aragorn questioned.

“I don't know,” the Doctor said, as Sajid came back in with a bowl of water. “It's worth doing your thing, though; at the least it'll soothe her a bit.” He stepped back and watched as Aragorn pulled out a handful of leaves and herbs from his pack and steeped them in the bowl, before soaking a cloth and wiping it over Mina's sweat-beaded brow.

Sajid, twisting his hands together, seemed anxious. “Will you be able to cure her?”

“We'll do our best,” said the Doctor. “Sajid, when did this start? How did it start?”

“For Mina?”

“No, for the first person who got ill.”

The story Sajid told was much like that related by Aragorn. A sandstorm had rolled in from the desert, coating the city in dust. When the storm had settled, people began falling ill. The young were more affected than the old, and more women had been infected than men. The fever took the victims first, with some developing a rash, dehydration and vomiting later. Eventually, weakened, they died.

The Doctor listened, his brain working to connect the disparate dots and solve the mystery. Possession by sand – it was a new one, and unusual, but certainly not incurable.

“Is there any one place with more cases?” he asked. “A hospital?”

“Many of the victims have been taken to the hospice, yes,” said Sajid.

“Good. Right. Can you show us the way?”

Sajid gestured helplessly at Mina. “But ...”

“I'm looking for patterns in the sickness,” the Doctor explained, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Might find them, in the hospice. If I can find a pattern, I can help her.”

Aragorn straightened from bending over his patient. “She'll rest easier, for the moment. Take us to the hospice.”

The hospice was cool and quiet, but the air was rank with the stench of sweat and sickness. They passed a room filled with bodies wrapped in shrouds, and came into a larger room where patients lay on mats. Aragorn and the Doctor exchanged looks, and split up. While Aragorn went around taking temperatures and checking pulses, the Doctor tried to make sense of the patients' ramblings and talked to those who were sitting nearby, tending to friends and relatives.

Eventually they left the sick, and sat together in a shady courtyard. “Well?” asked the Doctor.

Aragorn rolled his sleeves down and wiped a hand across his brow. “I fear they're beyond my aid, and truthfully there have been few people I have not been able to help in some way. I had a skilled teacher, and I would that he were here now to advise me.”

“You'll have to make do with me and with your own wisdom,” the Doctor said. “But it's like I thought; there's a sentient ... _something_ in this dust. I'm worried that it's lying dormant in the dead, ready to break out. How long does it take these people to bury their dead?”

“Not long,” said Aragorn. “It's the heat; the bodies decay quickly.”

“I don't suppose they cremate them?” asked the Doctor, hopefully.

“No.”

“Oh well. We'll have to deal with that as it happens.” He sounded sanguine about it. “Right. I need a sample of that sand, and I'll take it back to the TARDIS and try to work out where it came from. If I get a planet of origin, I might get a solution.”

Aragorn nodded. “I will stay here and do what little I can.”

The sample was easily obtained – there seemed to be sand everywhere – and after a couple of wrong turns the Doctor managed to find his way back to the TARDIS. He shrugged off his coat, brushed dust from his hair, and set to work.

An hour later, linear time, and after some chemical analysis and a foray to the library, he had his answer. At least it was some way towards an answer; he now knew _where_ the invasion was coming from, and at least seven possible ways of stopping it, but choosing the right way rather depended on the reason for the invasion.

Back at the hospice Aragorn was moving from patient to patient. He appeared to have won the trust of the Haradric doctors and was working quietly with them, but as the Doctor appeared he excused himself and came over.

“I have almost exhausted my supplies of athelas and I fear nothing is really helping,” he said, without preamble. “Well?”

“As I suspected it's an invasion,” said the Doctor. “I need to go and talk to the invaders, at the source, if we can find it.”

“ _Talk_ to them?” Aragorn asked. “If it is an invasion, will talking be the solution?”

The Doctor gave him a look. “I thought you were the reluctant warrior, rather giving and taking counsel than waving a sword in someone's face.”

“I would rather do that, indeed, but I have found it seldom works,” Aragorn said.

“It works when it's me doing the talking,” said the Doctor. “No swords. No bows and arrows. Got that?”

For a moment Aragorn looked as though he was going to argue, but then he relaxed, shrugged his shoulders and nodded. “Agreed. My apologies, Doctor; few save my Undómiel speak thus to me now.”

“Burden of power,” said the Doctor. “Righty-ho, then, back to the TARDIS and let's get to the source.”

They left the quiet peace of the hospital and went back into the busy town. As they walked Aragorn pointed out buildings and people of note and the Doctor drank in the sights and smells.

The TARDIS was just around the corner when Aragorn paused, touching the Doctor's elbow. “Guards,” he hissed, under his breath.

“Guards from where?” asked the Doctor, noting the well-worn grips of the curved swords carried by the three men in front of them.

“The Caliph's palace,” said Aragorn, his hand close to the hilt of his own sword. “I cannot risk a commotion, Doctor; we may have conquered Harad but the relationship between us still stands on a knife-edge.”

The Doctor glanced at him. “So don't use a knife,” he suggested. “Let me do the talking. I'm good at talking. Maybe they won't notice you.” Aragorn gave him a silent, eloquent look, and the Doctor shrugged. “You never know,” he said.

In the end the Doctor's talking was no use, and within an hour he and Aragorn found themselves locked in a comfortable room in the palace, awaiting the Caliph's pleasure. The Doctor was perched on the edge of a table, while Aragorn paced.

“This is a disaster,” he said, pausing in the pacing.

“It could be better,” agreed the Doctor.

“They have my sword!” said Aragorn. “That is as much a giveaway of who I am as anything else. And I cannot leave without it.”

The Doctor felt in a pocket, and pulled out his sonic screwdriver, twirling it thoughtfully. “Why not?”

Aragorn took three swift strides over to him, and snatched the screwdriver. “What is this to you, Doctor?”

“Hey!” The Doctor got to his feet. “It's a tool. A very useful tool. It's got me out of rather a lot of scrapes. And it's handy when there's a screw loose in the TARDIS.” He put his hands in his pockets. “And it's not a weapon.”

“Isn't it?” Aragorn threw the screwdriver back. “Sometimes a weapon is more of a symbol than something of destruction, Doctor. Andúril is such a thing. It long held the hope and the memory of my line – it reminded us of what we had lost, even when we were little more than wanderers in the wilderness. Reforged, it brought that hope to the South and fear to the hearts of our enemies.”

“The sword, or the hand that wields it?” said the Doctor.

Resuming his pacing, Aragorn shrugged. “I know not. All I know is that this has turned into a fool's errand, and if it brings strife between our nations I will hold you responsible, Doctor.”

The Doctor shrugged. “I've been responsible for worse, Aragorn. Much worse.” He eyed the King closely. “I'm sorry if this causes you any difficulty. How about we focus on trying to deal with this infection – the Haradrim will surely not mind you being here if you save them from a plague?”

“It would probably help,” Aragorn acknowledged.

They waited, quieter now, for some time. The Doctor tried sonicking the door, but it was stubbornly wooden and appeared to be simply barred from the other side rather than locked. After a while Aragorn fished out a long-stemmed pipe from inside his leather jacket and pressed some leaf into it. A search for tinder proved less successful until the Doctor found some matches deep inside one of his own pockets, and the room filled slowly with fragrant smoke.

After several hours the door was unbarred. Aragorn swiftly tapped out the pipe and stowed it away, standing ready for action. The Doctor stood too, hands in pockets again.

Behind the door were two guards and an older man in the robes of a courtier. He bowed; Aragorn returned the salute.

“I am sorry to keep you so long,” the elderly man said. “There has been some ... difficulties. We had hoped to bring you to the Caliph, as he has ordered his guards to detain all Northerners seen in the City.”

“Why's that?” the Doctor asked. “Aren't you at peace now?”

“It is our law,” the Haradrim returned, gravely. “However I regret to say the Caliph is indisposed.”

Aragorn's eyes narrowed. “Do you mean he is ill, sir?”

For a second the old man hesitated. “Yes.”

“We can help,” the Doctor said. “I think I can make this sickness go away.”

The Haradrim looked at him, open wonder on his lined face. “Are you then a wizard, sir? We mistrust wizards in this country. We were lied to for too long, by wizards and their kind.”

“You were lied to by Sauron the Deceiver,” Aragorn said. “And he is defeated.” There was a stern look in his gaze. “We will not lie, sir. We will try to help you.”

“Very well,” said the old man. “But first, tell me what brings you to Harad? We see few Northerners, save those trading goods from Gondor. And few, if I may say so, with such ... strange clothing.”

The Doctor looked down at himself. “These old things? Very practical for travelling. Lots of pockets.”

Aragorn cut in. “We are merely travellers, sir, with a fancy to see the world. I am a Ranger of the far North; Halboron son of Sador. We are sorry to cause you any difficulties, but will attempt to atone by assisting with this sickness.”

Sighing, the Haradrim nodded. “Very well. If you can cure our Caliph, our thanks will indeed be great.” He led the way out of the room and into a small antechamber, where he handed Aragorn back his sword and dagger. “A fine weapon, son of Sador.”

Aragorn buckled the sword-belt around his waist and touched the hilt as though to reassure himself that it was there. “Indeed. An heirloom of my house, and I am grateful for its return.”

“Do you need assistance?” asked the Haradrim.

“No, we'll be fine,” the Doctor reassured him. “So will your Caliph, never you worry! Off we go, Halboron.” He gave Aragorn a wink.

Neither of them said anything more until they reached the TARDIS, standing untouched and silent in its alleyway. Once inside the Doctor swung into action, firing up the engine and inputting coordinates. Aragorn leaned against the railing and watched.

“So are you planning to tell me what you aim to do when we arrive at wherever it is we are going?” he asked.

“Oh, play it by ear, as ever,” the Doctor said, flinging a lever and looking up at the central column.

“That is not much of a plan,” Aragorn noted.

“Plans,” said the Doctor, pausing in his antics around the console and looking at Aragorn, “are generally overrated, I feel. It's all very well planning what you are going to do, but it doesn't take into account what the other person might do.” The TARDIS shuddered, and he put on the handbrake. “Besides, it's more fun this way.”

“You are playing with people's lives,” returned Aragorn. His tone was cool. “Not only your own – and I can well see how that might be tempting, as you are granted this boon of returning after death – but also the people of Harad.”

“And yours,” the Doctor added.

“My life has been in danger many a time,” Aragorn said, “and I do not fear death. But these people are innocents.”

The Doctor crossed to the strut where he had left his coat, picked it up and shrugged it on. “Very few people are ever truly innocent,” he said, darkly. “I'm not forcing you to come. But we do this my way or not at all.”

For a moment, Aragorn looked as though he would resist. Then he nodded, sharply. “Your way, then, Doctor.”

They opened the TARDIS door to a scene of bleak isolation. Sand dunes stretched as far as the eye could see, golden in the setting sun but devoid of all life. The wind whipped the sand up into their faces, and the Doctor pulled out two large handkerchiefs from his pocket and passed one to Aragorn. “Wrap this around your face,” he suggested, following his own proposal and covering his mouth and nose.

Aragorn did so, before drawing his sword with a rasp of steel and turning it in his hand. “What are we looking for?” he asked, through the handkerchief.

“A ship,” said the Doctor. “Not a sailing ship, and not a ship like my TARDIS either. A crashed ship, I think, with something inside that can't get home.”

“And so wants to make Arda its own?” Aragorn finished.

“If you can't get home, generally you try to find a new one,” said the Doctor. He took out the sonic screwdriver and buzzed it towards the sand. He started walking, and Aragorn followed.


	3. Chapter 3

They walked for some time, their eyes and throats dry from the sand. The Doctor's mind went back to another sandstorm, far away, that had not been a sandstorm after all. Aragorn remembered a long-ago, lonely journey through the dunes, when he was young, and had been searching for things that belonged on Middle-earth and not in the skies above it.

At length, by which time their clothes and hair were coated with sand, the Doctor let out a muffled cry of triumph as the screwdriver buzzed. In front of them, looming through the haze, was a metal shape. Aragorn hefted his sword, but the Doctor put away the screwdriver and fished a torch out of a pocket.

Working their way around the side of the crashed ship, they found an opening that could have been a door, or a window, or merely a crack. It was big enough for both of them to fit inside and with a glance back at Aragorn the Doctor led the way.

The interior of the spaceship was much less sandy, so they removed their handkerchiefs and breathed clean air. All was dark save for the blueish light of the Doctor's little torch, and all was utterly quiet. The Doctor gestured with a nod of his head.

"This way, I think," he said.

Slowly, they picked their way through the crashed spaceship. The metal corridors were dented and broken, but Aragorn noticed the Doctor seemed to be perfectly at home in the confines of the wreck – just as he had, strangely, been at home in Minas Tirith or in the city of Harad. He certainly appeared able to find his route without much hesitation.

After perhaps ten minutes they emerged into a large chamber with a high roof and a flat console covered in intricate patterns and screens. The Doctor went straight to it, and putting the torch between his teeth began running his hands over the patterns.

"Let me," said Aragorn, taking the torch and pointing the light at the console.

"Thanks," said the Doctor. "Under here?" He crouched down and pulled out a mass of wires, picking through them and buzzing the sonic screwdriver at them quickly. With a hiss and a crackle, first one then several of the screens burst into life. A little more fiddling and lights came on in the room. The Doctor took the torch from Aragorn and turned it off. "Now," he said, "let's see if anyone's home." He swept his hand across the console.

At the entrance to the chamber there was a shimmer in the air, and Aragorn felt, somehow, that they were no longer alone. The Doctor was leaning nonchalantly on the console, arms folded.

"I thought you'd appreciate some light," he said. There was a pause; the Doctor seemed to be listening to something. "I'm the Doctor," he said. "I've come to help. Would you mind very much ... hold on a second ..." He turned to the console, tapped it a few times, and pointed the sonic screwdriver in the direction of the doorway. Suddenly Aragorn could distinguish tall, thin shapes in the room. "Now," the Doctor continued, "what's going on here?"

"We are lost," said the shapes. Aragorn felt, or thought, rather than heard the words. "So very lost."

"I know." The Doctor's voice was compassionate. "I'm sorry, I really am. But you can't go about taking over other people's bodies as a result."

"This is a good place for us," the shapes returned. "We can belong here."

The Doctor straightened, putting his hands in his pockets. "No, you can't. This world is taken. You're killing its inhabitants. Let me help you get home."

"Our home is locked from us," came the reply.

Aragorn looked over at the Doctor, who had become very still. "Locked?" the Doctor said, after a pause.

"We cannot return."

"What do they mean, locked?" Aragorn asked.

"Their planet is time-locked," said the Doctor, his voice flat and his eyes empty as he glanced at Aragorn. "It's locked in a war. Somehow, they've escaped, but they cannot return. Nobody can break that lock."

Aragorn thought about the words. "I confess I cannot understand you, Doctor. You will, I am sure, explain later. Can you help these people? Can you help the Haradrim?"

"Of course I can," said the Doctor, visibly shrugging off his strange mood and beginning to dance his hands over the console. "Now, let's see ... there's a lovely little planet, nice and hot, quite uninhabited, just a couple of million light years from here. How about that?"

"We cannot move," said the shapes. "This place is suitable."

"This place is taken," the Doctor repeated. "And of course you can move – your ship's a bit battered, but she'll fly. Nice vessel. I like her. If I just reroute this ..." his fingers tapped, "and jury-rig that ..." a green light shone out, "she'll fly just as well as ever." A hum filled the air. "There you go, engines." He turned around again, folding his arms. "Call your fellows back."

The shapes gathered form and substance, becoming easier to see. "No."

"Call them back," said the Doctor.

"This is not your world," the shapes returned. "You have no jurisdiction here."

Aragorn realised the Doctor was about to argue, and stepped forward. "He does not. But I do." The full attention of the strange beings was on him; he felt them probing his mind, questioning. He raised Andúril in salute, and lowered the sword. "By rightful conquest the peoples of this land answer to my rule. The blood of my people won peace for this world. I will not see that peace destroyed by invaders, not again. I ask you to leave. My friend here can find you somewhere else, and you too can build a land free from war and strife."

"And if we refuse?"

"I would not advise it," said the Doctor, softly. "Come now, you have a choice, to save your people and those of this planet. It's not every day you get to make that sort of choice. Let me help you."

There was a long pause. Aragorn felt the tension humming in the air; saw it in the Doctor's posture, the way he was playing with his sonic screwdriver.

At length, there was a deep sigh from the aliens. "We will let you help us," they said. "We have consulted. We have heard of you, and we feel you owe us this, at least."

"Thank you," said the Doctor. He turned to Aragorn. "Hold on to something, and put that hanky back over your mouth. There might be a bit of wind." He grinned, wrapping his own handkerchief over his face once again. A few moments later, as Aragorn gripped on to a support strut, there was indeed a violent gust and sand came streaming into the room. The shapes gathered in mass and number, and then the wind died down.

The Doctor tapped at the console again. "Lovely to see you all. Now, I've set your coordinates and you'll be lifting off just as soon as we're off your ship. Safe journey. I'll pop in in a few years and see how you're getting on." A row of lights shone out across the console. "Thank you. And – I'm sorry, I really am. C'mon, Aragorn."

They scrambled back through the ship, and as they stepped away from it hatches began closing and the engines roared into life. The Doctor gestured. "Back to the TARDIS. This thing will sweep us away at take-off if we're not careful."

Hurrying through the dunes, their hair was whipped around their faces by the power of the ship's engines. As they reached the safety of the little blue box, the other spaceship lifted into the sky and vanished in a rush of wind and a flash of greenish light.

Aragorn brushed sand out of his hair and clothes as the Doctor proffered him a glass of water. He drank deeply, setting the glass down on the TARDIS's cluttered console when it was empty. "Will the Haradrim be healed?"

"The Caliph will be up and about within the hour," said the Doctor, clearly pleased with himself. "Want to go back and find out?"

Shaking his head, Aragorn declined the offer. "No. I risked too much in any case going there once. Time to return to Minas Tirith."

"We could stop by their new planet," suggested the Doctor, coaxingly. "A whole new world, Aragorn, think of that."

"iNo/i," Aragorn said. "You might have the liberty to travel when and where you will, Doctor, but I have a kingdom to run."

The Doctor sighed. "It's a time machine, I've told you that. I can still get you back five minutes after we left, even if we travelled for months."

"An hour or so will suffice," said Aragorn. "And I will insist you stay for dinner. I have questions."

"Why don't you just ask them now?"

Aragorn smiled. "I would prefer to ask them on my territory, Doctor. Minas Tirith?"

Without further argument, but giving Aragorn a hard look, the Doctor did his strange little dance around the machine. The engines groaned and the TARDIS jolted before quietening.

They had landed in the gardens again. Nobody was about and, returning to the Citadel, they found Arwen alone in the King's study.

"I've only just sat down!" she exclaimed. "Did you forget something, Estel?"

"We have been to Harad and returned," said Aragorn.

The Doctor pulled a book off the shelves and flicked through it. "What did I tell you?" he said, clearly pleased with himself. "Back just after we left."

Arwen turned to Aragorn. "So, did you discover what the sickness was?"

"Discovered it and, I am told, cured it," said Aragorn. "We were in Harad perhaps six or seven hours. Truly, Arwen, the Doctor's box is miraculous."

"What will you tell the ambassador?" she asked.

The King unbuckled his sword-belt and propped the sword against the desk, perching on the edge of it. "That I've sent a messenger with some remedies. I suppose I should send someone in truth. They will get there, discover all is well, and return with the good news. In the same time the ambassador will doubtless receive word himself." He stretched. "My love, will you stay here and keep the Doctor company while I change? He is staying for dinner."

"I don't mind staying here with a book," said the Doctor.

Aragorn shook his head, knowing his guest would try and slip away if left alone. "I will not have a guest left alone in Minas Tirith."

"It will be my pleasure," said Arwen. She pulled forward a small table, on which was set up a chessboard. "Do you play, Doctor?"

The Doctor visibly brightened and took a seat. As Aragorn went to wash and find some clean clothes, the pair were already deep in the game. By the time he had returned, the game was on a knife-edge; he watched silently from the doorway as Arwen made her move, only to throw up her hands in despair with the Doctor's next go and his triumphant "checkmate!"

"Nobody's beaten her in months," said Aragorn, impressed.

"I think Imrahil was the last," Arwen said. "Well-played, Doctor."

In a small but luxurious hall dinner was laid for three – a light soup, a dish of beef, and an array of cheeses and puddings to follow. Aragorn sent away the servants and served his guest a bowl of soup.

"Now, we talk," he said, dipping his spoon into his own bowl. "When you were here, before, Mithrandir told me a little of what you are and the life you lead. But only a little. I would know more. Where do you come from?"

The Doctor swallowed his soup, clearly buying time. Eventually he put down his spoon and leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "Another world," he said.

"That much I had worked out for myself," said Aragorn, a hint of annoyance in his tone.

"It ... it was called Gallifrey," the Doctor continued.

"Was?" asked Arwen, softly.

"It burned." The Doctor's eyes were gazing into the distance. "Your war destroyed many things, Aragorn. But Arda survives. My war tore down civilisations."

Arwen, still soft, said, "What were you fighting for?"

"I'm not even sure," said the Doctor, with a wry smile. "Domination of the universe, I suppose, though if we'd continued there wouldn't have been a universe to dominate. That's why I had to end it. I ended it, and I locked the inferno away. I can't go back, even if there was anything to go back to."

"So those creatures in Harad ..." said Aragorn.

"They must have escaped before the end," the Doctor agreed. "But it's my fault, that they can't return to their own world. In a way, Harad was my fault too." He spread out long, thin fingers. "Sometimes I wonder that I'm the only one who can see the blood on my hands."

It was seldom that Aragorn found himself lost for words. Instead, Arwen reached out and took the Doctor's hands in hers across the table. "But you did a good thing today, Doctor, for Harad and for the creatures you saved."

"Yeah." The Doctor's voice was bitter. "My lady, I spend every day trying to do a good thing, on a hundred different planets."

Aragorn said, "So this is why you choose not to fight with weapons, but with words."

"I've always preferred words to weapons," agreed the Doctor, "but yes – since the Time War, I don't like them. I'm a talker, not a fighter."

"You certainly talk more now than you did on your last visit," said Aragorn. "You've barely stopped."

Arwen poured some more wine, pushing the glass towards the Doctor. "Does it help?" she asked.

The Doctor shook his head. "No. Not really." He drank. "That's why I've always travelled with someone," he went on. "But I keep losing them. I find some brilliant, bright person, and they travel with me, and it's all wonderful for a while. But I lose them – to someone they love, to a crack in the world, or I do something that destroys them utterly. It's better, I think, to be alone."

"Or to hide, in plain sight," suggested Arwen. "Behind the talk."

Raising his glass, the Doctor granted her a rueful smile. "You see too clearly, my lady." He turned his gaze on Aragorn. "So, you've asked your questions and you have your answers. Will you let me go now?"

Aragorn pushed his chair back, crossing long legs and pulling out his pipe. He sent a long stream of smoke up to the high ceiling before answering. "I never thought I could stop you going, had you really wanted to," he said. "You are always free to come and to go, here in Gondor, should you wish, my friend. Whatever face you're wearing."

"But next time, come with someone else," Arwen put in.

"I'll try," said the Doctor.

They walked out to the gardens together, Aragorn puffing on his pipe. The fragrant smoke rose into the clear night air, and the Doctor's eyes followed it towards the stars.

"Eärendil's bright tonight," he remarked. "Sure you don't fancy a ride, the two of you, out to see your grandfather?"

Aragorn and Arwen looked up too. There was a longing in both their faces, but Arwen shook her head. "We cannot," she said. "Once we left, would we ever return? Our duty is to Gondor."

"My lady's right, as usual," added Aragorn. "We must, but reluctantly, decline."

At the TARDIS the Doctor pulled out his key and unlocked the door.

"So where will you go next?" asked Aragorn. "Who will you help next?"

The Doctor shrugged. "Dunno. Might see where the old girl fancies going." He patted the wooden side of his ship fondly. "She generally has a good idea about these things."

Aragorn held out a hand, and the Doctor shook it. "In Dol Amroth they wish travellers fair winds," the King said. "And the hobbits wish you an easy journey until your next meal. I will just wish that you go in safety."

"And in peace," added Arwen.

"Never been especially good at either," said the Doctor, "but the sentiments are welcomed. Till next time, y'r Majesties." He slipped inside the TARDIS, and closed the door.

The wind blew through the garden briefly, and when it was gone and Arwen's loose hair had settled around her face, the TARDIS had vanished.

Aragorn held out his crooked elbow. "Shall we go in, my lady?"

She took his arm. "We shall."


End file.
